


The Seduction Malfunction

by iamtheenemy (Steph)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, But Aziraphale's not bad, Crowley is terrible at seduction, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:36:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph/pseuds/iamtheenemy
Summary: “Disguise yourself,” Hastur said. “Pretend you’re a priest, or better yet, an altar boy. Their lot can’t resist an altar boy.”Crowley held in a hysterical bubble of laughter as he imagined Aziraphale’s horrified face at being confronted with Crowley disguised as a lascivious altar boy. He’d feed him soup and give him a good talking to before sending him on his way.Crowley gets orders to seduce Aziraphale to the dark side. It goes about as well as you might expect.





	The Seduction Malfunction

**Author's Note:**

> I have no control over my Crowley feelings at this point.

**1996**

Really, Crowley should have been happy that it took Hell as long as it did to come up with this idea. Corrupting angels was practically their motto. 

“You want me to seduce him,” Crowley confirmed to Hastur, whose tinny, Freddie Mercury-tinged voice was coming through his car radio.

“He’s an angel, how hard could it be?” Hastur asked, speaking with the misleading confidence of an angel-romancing Lothario and not as the sentient lizard-thing walking around with a human meat puppet for a body that he was.

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to know about me,” Crowley argued, in turn speaking as if he hadn't shared a bottle of wine with the angel in question the night before.

“Disguise yourself,” Hastur said. “Pretend you’re a priest, or better yet, an altar boy. Their lot can’t resist an altar boy.”

Crowley held in a hysterical bubble of laughter as he imagined Aziraphale’s horrified face at being confronted with Crowley disguised as a lascivious altar boy. He’d feed him soup and give him a good talking to before sending him on his way.

“Yeah, uh, cracking suggestion. Thanks, mate,” Crowley said.

“This is a top priority to your superiors, Crowley. We’re expecting you to keep us updated,” Hastur said.

“Got it. Seduce Azira - erm, the angel and make him Fall. No problem, consider it done.”

“It better be,” Hastur said menacingly before he switched off and Freddie Mercury was back singing about wanting to make a supersonic man out of you.

“Fuck everything,” Crowley groaned. 

*

The good thing - Crowley reminded himself firmly - the _good_ thing was that Crowley harboured no illusions about his ability to tempt Aziraphale into anything more than a late lunch. Six millennia of diligent research told Crowley that the angel had very little interest in carnal pursuits and zero interest in experiencing any of them with Crowley.

This whole endeavour would be a colossal failure, in other words. Which was great, obviously. Perfect. It’s not as if Crowley would ever want Aziraphale to Fall. He would, in point of fact, tear down the world with his bare hands to prevent that very thing from happening.

So really, there was comfort in the certainty of knowing that nothing Crowley could do would ever move Aziraphale to darkness or...anything else. It was good. Great. Perfect. Everything going according to plan. 

That plan being for Crowley to throw himself at Aziraphale and have his attentions brushed off like so much lint from the angel’s antique coat. Basically their average Tuesday, except this time, instead of it ending with Crowley going home and getting spectacularly drunk, he would have to write up a report documenting his failure and Aziraphale’s stunning lack of interest for Beezlebub, Hastur, and all the minions of Hell to read. 

Wonderful. Spiffing. Tip-bloody-top.

*

Crowley walked into Aziraphale’s shop several months later, armed with a book and a plan. It was simple. He’d do his best to seduce Aziraphale, get flatly rejected, and then declare to Downstairs that the angel was sadly incorruptible and so could Crowley get a new mission now please.

Aziraphale appeared from the back area hauling a tall ladder with him.

“Oh, Crowley, what a surprise!” he said when he spotted him. “I didn’t know you’d be dropping by. What brings you here?”

Crowley should have started straight in on the speech he’d come up with on the plane ride back from Portugal where he’d secured Aziraphale’s gift. 

_I scoured Europe searching for this first edition copy of_ Paradise Lost _. You mentioned wanting it once when we traveled to Cardiff together in 1826, and because I’m disgustingly, incurably in love with you, I remembered after all this time. Now, if it’s all right with you, I would very much like to ravish you on that table or the floor or the couch. There’s a bed back at mine, if that’s more your style. Then, just a thought, you could let me keep you until the stars blink out of the sky. And after that, I’ll make new stars, and we can start all over again._

And then Aziraphale would dither and say something back like, _Oh dear, my good fellow, I would never sully myself with a demon such as yourself. So sorry, but thank you for the book._

Crowley opened his mouth and instead asked, “What’s the ladder for?”

“A bit of spring cleaning,” Aziraphale answered. “Every decade or so I try to do it the old fashioned way and get the nooks and crannies that the miracles miss. What book have you got there?”

The perfect opening. Crowley glanced at it and back at Aziraphale.

It was one thing to know, in his head, that Aziraphale would reject his advances. It was another to experience that rejection firsthand. Crowley found, when faced with the two options, he much preferred to keep his disappointment hypothetical.

“Ran across this the other day and thought of you,” he said nonchalantly, tossing Aziraphale the priceless first edition he’d spent the better part of six months tracking down.

Aziraphale, whose body wasn’t made with fine motor control as a primary concern, bobbled the book awkwardly before finally catching it. 

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed, touching the cover reverently. He looked up at Crowley, his expression so open and earnest that it made Crowley squirm uncomfortably.

“Calm down, it’s just a book,” he said. 

“It’s a Milton first edition. I’ve been searching for one of these for centuries, you see,” Aziraphale explained. “You just happened upon it? Where?”

Crowley shrugged off the four different people he paid and two round trip flights that it required with a casual lift of his shoulders. 

“Who cares? Do you want it or not?” he asked.

“Yes! Of course I want it, but I have no idea how I’ll begin to pay back such an extravagant gift.”

“It’s a mouldy old book, angel. Taking it off my hands is payment enough.”

“Well.” Aziraphale placed the book carefully on his countertop next to the useless till. “Thank you for thinking of me then.”

“Who else would I think of? Beezlebub?” Crowley asked, his cowardice making him cranky.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale said. “I’m very grateful. I insist you let me buy you lunch sometime.” He gave the book one more fond pat and said, “Reading this will be my reward for finishing the cleaning.”

Crowley watched dubiously as Aziraphale positioned the ladder in front of a high shelf full of manuscripts. Before climbing it, though, Aziraphale carefully removed his ever-present coat and draped it over a nearby chair.

Crowley, who hadn’t seen so much as a wrist bone on Aziraphale since togas were all the rage, could only stare as the angel began unbuttoning the sleeves of his white dress shirt and rolling the material up to the elbows. 

Well, that was...that was about enough of that.

“Nuhh..wh-wha…” Crowley said, words getting caught in his throat as he stared at all of the pale, smooth, white skin suddenly on display. “What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale said absently as he continued his task of driving Crowley a little crazier with each casual fold of fabric. “It gets quite dusty up there, you see. I don’t want my shirt getting dirty.” 

“Yes, well…” _It’s obscene. It’s pornographic._ , Crowley wanted to say. _Let me cover the windows first, at least, so that no one else gets to see this but me._ He voiced none of that, though, focused as he was on attempting to turn his gaze anywhere else - the ceiling, the bookshelves, his own shoes - instead of Aziraphale’s bared forearms. 

Then Aziraphale climbed up the ladder, and the new, painfully tempting view was enough to jolt Crowley out of his stupor.

“I only came here to see if you wanted that book, so I’ll leave you to it,” he said, cursing his tight trousers. He knew that behind his glasses, his eyes had reverted to their completely golden state.

Aziraphale looked down at him from where he was stretching to reach the highest shelf.

“Oh, right. Well, don’t forget that lunch,” he said. 

“Some other time,” Crowley muttered. He raised a hand in a dismissive wave as he escaped out the front door. “Later.”

He walked out onto the sidewalk and groaned, dropping his head into his hands. Then, as an afterthought, he snapped his fingers to tint the shop windows and lock the door for good measure as he scurried away.

*

**2005**

Time moving the way it did in Hell, and the inefficiency of bureaucracy transcending the laws of God and man, Hastur didn’t revisit the whole seducing the angel business until nearly a decade later. 

“How do you mean he’s incorruptible? Nobody’s incorruptible, especially not angels. We know that better than anyone!” 

Hastur had come through his television over an episode of EastEnders, perched on a bar stool at the Queen Vic. 

“This one is,” Crowley said. “He’s impossible to crack. I pulled out all the stops.”

“The altar boy?” Hastur asked.

“First thing I tried.”

“What about horses?”

Crowley started to think that the other demon was confused about some of the basic tenets of sexuality.

“Yup. Did the old horse trick. Nothing. Not a flinch,” he said. 

“Impossible!” Hastur shouted.

“I said the same thing,” Crowley agreed. “I said if the horses don’t work, there’s no hope for this whole corrupting business. I guess we better just move on.”

“That’s not for you to decide, Crowley!” Hastur cried. “If you’re given an assignment, you find a way to finish it! The Great War is almost upon us, and our side needs all the help it can get! The angel will be in Marseille - “ he pronounced it ‘mar-seal,’ “ - next week trying to influence a woman to start some sort of goodwill mumbo-jumbo. You need to go there too, and we expect results!”

“Results, right,” Crowley agreed, resigned.

*

This time Aziraphale found Crowley, who was lounging on a beach chair at their seaside resort and already very, very drunk.

“Crowley?” he asked, when he was done whispering in the ear of the woman he was meant to inspire.

“Hey!” Crowley shouted. “Azra...Apha...buddy! What a surprise!” He waved his bottle of wine in greeting.

“I didn’t know you were coming too. What brings you here?” Aziraphale asked.

“Doing a bit of tempting,” Crowley answered. “Orders from, you know…” He affected a stage whisper and pointed to the sand, “Down There.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. “Who are you meant to be tempting, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Who?” Crowley said. “Oh, uh…” He gestured to a portly man wearing Superman swimming trunks down the beach. “That guy.”

Aziraphale looked dubious. “Him? Really?”

“Yup,” Crowley said. “Gonna be suuuuuper evil.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Aziraphale said, sounding unconcerned about it. “May I join you?”

“Why not?” Crowley said and haphazardly miracled up another chair.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale said, sitting down beside him. Crowley offered him the bottle of wine. He accepted it and took a sip. “Lovely vintage.”

They passed the bottle back and forth silently as they watched the soft sea waves lapping at the shore.

“I love London,” Aziraphale said after a while, “but there’s something to be said for the weather in France.” He hummed and closed his eyes, luxuriating in the warm summer sun.

Crowley took a long sip from the bottle and slurred, “You want...that? In the...up there? I can, I can…” He used his arms to mime grabbing the sun. “Would it make you happy? Would it…?”

“It seems you’ve gotten quite the head start on me,” Aziraphale responded, a touch of humour in his voice, his eyes still closed.

Crowley remembered his mission. “I have to…” He puckered his lips at Aziraphale. “Hey angel, you and I should…”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and gazed trustingly at Crowley. “What?”

Crowley sighed and turned his head. “Nothing. Give it here.” He snatched the newly-filled bottle out of Aziraphale’s hand and took a fortifying swig.

Aziraphale gave a stretch and snapped his fingers and suddenly his feet were bare, toes wiggling in the sand.

“That’s better,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I felt the hot sand on my feet. What a pleasure.”

“Ngk,” Crowley replied.

Aziraphale frowned. “All right, Crowley?”

“Feet. You...have them,” he responded dumbly.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale said. “I have all the appropriate body parts.”

Crowley’s mouth went completely dry. He licked his lips and took another drink from the bottle.

“All of them,” he parroted back.

“Yes, all of them. As do you,” Aziraphale affirmed. He gave another snap of his fingers and Crowley’s own bare feet were sinking into the dense sand. “There we are, see?” 

Aziraphale stretched again, but this time _he nudged his foot against Crowley’s_. His bare foot. His _naked_ foot, against Crowley's equally _naked_ foot. Just...naked skin touching all over the place. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said again as every nerve ending in his body seemed to come alive at once. He gripped the arm rests of the chair until they creaked and stared down at where their feet still touched.

“This is nice,” Aziraphale said. “To be honest, I’d been thinking about a holiday even before my orders came in. Have you got anywhere to be, or can you stay a while?”

“I can stay as long as you’d like,” Crowley told him breathlessly, never meaning anything more in his whole life.

*

 **Tuesday**

Crowley didn’t know what to expect from a life temporarily free of the obligations of Hell. Mostly it was a bit boring. So when his phone rang in the middle of the afternoon, he snatched the receiver off the cradle as quickly as he could.

Only Aziraphale and telemarketers still used his landline. Even Hell was on mobile.

“Yeah?” he greeted.

“Hello, Crowley. It’s Aziraphale.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “I know.”

“Oh, well, good then.” 

There was a long silence, and Crowley asked, “Did you need something?”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Yes. I was wondering if you had plans for tonight.”

“Nothing pressing, why?” he replied.

“I thought we might have dinner, if you’re free.”

“I could make that work,” Crowley said. “What time?”

“Let’s say seven?”

“I’ll pick you up,” Crowley agreed.

“Excellent. It’s a date,” Aziraphale said and hung up.

“What?” Crowley demanded to the ring tone. He pulled the phone away from his ear to stare at the receiver incredulously. “ _What_?”

*

By the time he’d arrived in front of the bookshop that night, Crowley had convinced himself that he must have misunderstood what Aziraphale said on the phone. 

You’d think that six millennia worth of life experience with Aziraphale, not to mention a week straight full of constant rejection by him, would have burned that pesky hope out of Crowley already.

He was giving himself a strong mental talking to when Aziraphale approached the passenger side door, a small tulip in a pot cradled in his hands. He got in with a grin.

“Crowley, I’m so glad you could come,” he said.

“You’re holding a flower,” Crowley answered.

“Oh, ah, yes,” Aziraphale stuttered. “I saw it today in the shop down the road, and I thought you might like it.”

“You thought,” Crowley repeated slowly, “I might like it.”

“To add to your garden,” he continued.

That sad excuse for a tulip didn’t deserve to be anywhere near his gorgeous plants, but Aziraphale was looking at him so hopefully that he could only reply with a choked, “Thank you.”

Then he cut away from the kerb with a squeal of tyres to compensate for whatever strange, soft thing was going on inside his chest at the moment. 

“Turn left up here,” Aziraphale said.

“Not the Ritz?” Crowley asked, surprised.

“I thought we’d try Italian tonight. I remember how much you enjoyed the risotto in Venice.”

“Venice?” Crowley asked, combing his memory for when that might have been. “You mean back in the 1700s?” 

“Yes, I suppose it must have been that long ago. Why, have you changed your opinion on it?” Aziraphale asked. “A table can always open at the Ritz, if need be.”

“No, I…” Crowley began. “Italian’s fine.”

“Oh good. Then it’s just a few blocks that way.”

*

The restaurant in question was the opposite of Aziraphale’s usual style. Instead of the glamour of the Ritz, Luigi’s was a small, cozy sort of place.

They walked in and Aziraphale gave the hostess his name. She ushered them past the main dining area and into a more secluded spot in the back. The corner table was dressed with two flutes of champagne and a candle in the middle, flickering merrily.

Crowley could feel his eyebrows rising to a near-impossible height. As he sat down, he cast his eyes on Aziraphale, who looked back sheepishly.

“I should - that is. Allow me to explain,” he said.

“I’m listening,” Crowley answered.

 _It’s not what you want_ , he reminded himself firmly. _It’s never, ever what you want._

“I’ve been terrible to you lately,” Aziraphale explained. “I said things I knew were cruel, because I was scared - of what might happen, of what I was feeling, of the future. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am.”

Crowley nodded, understanding dawning. “So this is your way of apologizing,” he said, the flower and the dinner suddenly making sense.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Or, well, yes. I do hope you accept my sincere apology. But I invited you out tonight because…”

As Crowley watched, fascinated, Aziraphale’s face began to flush. It started at his neck and traveled all the way up to his hairline. For a being that didn’t strictly require blood flow, that was an interesting occurrence.

“I’m not doing this very well,” Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley willed him to just get on with it already. “It’s nothing bad,” Aziraphale hastened to clarify, “In fact, I’m hoping it’s good, but one can never be completely certain about these things, I’m learning.”

“Angel, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath and said, “I suppose the easiest way to explain it is to tell you that I love you.”

Time stopped. Did time stop? Did Crowley accidentally pause the world in his shock? He looked around, and no, there was a waiter hurrying through the dining room with a tray balanced on his hand. It was just Crowley who was struck utterly dumb then. 

“Um…” he said.

“What I mean to say is that I’m _in_ love with you,” Aziraphale added. “And I think you love me too. At least I hope I haven’t been reading you wrong. With all that talk of running away together to Alpha Centauri and such, it seemed as though you may reciprocate my feelings. But if I’m wrong, again, my deepest apologies. By all means, tell me, and we’ll forget about this whole thing — “

“Don’t you dare,” growled Crowley, finally getting his voice back. “Angel, don’t you _dare_.”

The grin that spread across Aziraphale’s face cracked open something dark and secret inside of Crowley. His breathing was coming out very rapidly. It was possible he was having what the humans called a panic attack.

“Oh. Oh good. I can’t tell you how happy that makes me.” He put a fluttery hand up to his chest a moment and then dropped it to cover Crowley’s. 

Crowley’s eyes zeroed in on the contact as Aziraphale, demon that he was, just kept talking.

“I find, in thinking back on my life - as one does when faced with almost certain death - that you were always, without exception, the most important thing in it,” Aziraphale admitted. “And surely the most precious.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley croaked, his voice caught, embarrassingly, somewhere between a whimper and sob. He closed his eyes and tried to gain control of himself. “I…” He stopped, frustrated as the words refused to come. 

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale assured him with a kind smile. “Truly, I already know.”

Crowley nodded, grateful, and slowly turned his hand over so that their fingers linked. Aziraphale responded by lifting it to his mouth and placing a tender kiss on Crowley’s knuckles.

A faint tremor began somewhere in Crowley’s belly and radiated out, making his ears ring and the tips of his fingers tingle. This wasn’t a feeling meant for a demon, but then nothing concerning his relationship with Aziraphale ever had been.

“I wish...that is, I’d like to do this right, if you’d let me,” Aziraphale said. “I’ve made so many mistakes, and you’ve been so patient with me for so long. I want to make it up to you.” 

Crowley shook his head. “You don’t need to…”

“I do,” Aziraphale interrupted firmly, his hand tightening around Crowley’s.

“What are you proposing?” Crowley asked. 

“Let me court you properly,” Aziraphale said.

“Let you _court_ me?” Crowley felt like his hair was going to catch on fire. “Aziraphale, I’m a demon. We don’t want anyone _courting_ us.”

“Forgive me for being presumptuous: maybe most demons don’t, but I think you might,” Aziraphale said. “And I’d like to try. I’ve never done it before either, you know, but I suspect I’d be good at it, for you.”

Crowley took a shaky breath and cursed the angel’s blasted perceptiveness. He attempted a nonchalant shrug. “Yeah, all right, fine. Sounds like a waste of time, but do what you like.”

Aziraphale grinned, clearly seeing through Crowley’s bravado. Bending down, he gave Crowley’s hand another soft kiss. “Thank you, dear.”

*

It was hours later when Crowley dropped Aziraphale back at the bookshop. 

“Can I see you again tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked him. 

“Getting clingy already, angel?” Crowley asked, and was surprised when Aziraphale laughed instead of taking offence.

“Oh yes, tremendously. You’re going to have to be prepared for that, I’m afraid,” he said.

Crowley, who’d been preparing for that for the last six thousand years, could only stare dumbfounded at Aziraphale. 

“What...what time tomorrow?” he asked when he could think of no witty rejoinder.

“Noon?” Aziraphale suggested. “If you’re not busy.”

“I’m not busy,” he said faintly. 

“Lovely then. Thank you for coming to dinner with me,” Aziraphale said. “I hope you enjoy the flower.”

“Good night,” Crowley said. “Oh, and Aziraphale?”

The angel, about to open the door, turned back around. “Yes?”

Crowley leaned forward and grabbed Aziraphale by the lapels of his coat, pulling him until their mouths crashed together. Aziraphale put up no resistance, immediately groaning and wrapping his arms around Crowley’s back. 

Crowley had just dared to skim a hand under Aziraphale’s coat when Aziraphale ripped himself away, huddling against the passenger side door and looking positively scandalized, his lips shiny and bright red. 

“Still a demon,” Crowley reminded him with a smirk, feeling extremely proud of himself and more than a little turned on.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aziraphale was going to dive right back in. Crowley had never had the experience of being looked at like a dessert before, but that was Aziraphale’s ‘last raspberry torte’ face, clear as day, directed squarely at Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley shifted closer again, and unfortunately that got Aziraphale moving. He fumbled for the door handle behind him and waved a chastising finger at Crowley. 

“No, no, we are doing this the right way,” he said. “Now begone, foul fiend! I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

*

When he arrived back at his flat, Crowley added the flower that Aziraphale gave him to his greenhouse.

Then he took out his water mister and began his nightly ritual of spraying and berating his plants, but his heart wasn’t in it. 

“And you,” he said finally, pointing to the plant from Aziraphale, with its tiny, pathetic pink bud. “You. You just…” He grit his teeth, “try your best.” 

The whole garden quivered in silent judgment. “Oh, shut up,” he snapped, “or it’s in the disposal with all of you.”

*

Aziraphale walked out of the bookshop promptly at noon the next day, carrying a large basket with him.

He got in the car and looked at Crowley with that infernal, gentle grin that was, over the last day, slowly dismantling Crowley from the inside out. The basket was deposited in the back seat, and Crowley banished the memory of the last time there’d been one of those sliding across the leather upholstery.

“Hello, Crowley,” Aziraphale said warmly.

Crowley forced himself to look straight ahead and said gruffly, “Afternoon, angel. What have you got there?”

Aziraphale replied, “I’m sure I’m being silly and you don’t remember this at all, but, my, it must have been sixty years ago now, on that night I gave you the holy water…”

As if Crowley would ever forget that conversation. As if he hadn’t replayed every word of it back in his head a thousand times, ten thousand. 

“You said that one day we’d go for a picnic,” Crowley finished. Aziraphale’s face melted into that grin again, and Crowley groaned. “Would you stop looking at me like that?”

“I’m afraid that’s just another thing you’ll have to get used to from now on,” Aziraphale responded, not sounding at all sorry.

Crowley glanced at him and then quickly away again, the sight of him nearly blinding. “Not while I’m driving,” he said.

“You’re not driving,” Aziraphale pointed out, indicating Crowley’s parked car.

“I’m _going_ to be driving, and I won’t be able to concentrate with you over there… _beaming_ at me.” Aziraphale’s grin only widened. “Stop it!”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale responded. 

“Fine, well,” Crowley started, embarrassed at how happy that made him, “won’t be my fault if we run over some poor pedestrian.”

“Duly noted,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley started the engine and asked, “Where to?”

“I thought I’d leave that up to you,” Aziraphale answered

“Oh,” Crowley said, feeling oddly disappointed. He didn't realize how much he was looking forward to Aziraphale taking the lead until that moment.

“What I mean to say is that, if you’re amenable, it might be fun to go for a drive together before we ate,” Aziraphale explained.

Crowley jerked his head to look at Aziraphale as what he said sank in. “But you hate driving with me.” His hands tightened on the wheel.

“Only here when there’s so many people around. Take us somewhere quiet where we can be alone,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah?” Crowley asked.

“I trust you,” Aziraphale confirmed. “I want to.”

Crowley could feel heat crawling up his spine and knew that his expression had to be humiliating. He did his best to tamp it down.

Aziraphale was watching his reaction closely. “Have I gotten it right?” he asked.

Crowley cleared his throat and turned to look quickly at Aziraphale’s hopeful face. “Yeah. Yeah, you’ve gotten it right,” he confirmed.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale said. He reached out a hand and put it on Crowley’s thigh, looking quite pleased with himself. “Where will you take us?”

A dangerous grin spread across Crowley’s face and his foot slammed down on the accelerator, the firm pressure of Aziraphale’s hand setting his whole body aflame. 

“Let’s find out.”

*

Crowley knew he was being reckless as the speedometer on the Bentley tipped over past one-twenty, but they’d made their way into the country where only the sheep and cows could judge them. A nudge with his mind ensured that it stayed that way. 

Aziraphale hadn’t moved his hand the whole trip, and he hadn’t made a single comment about Crowley’s speed. In fact, he wasn’t watching the road at all, choosing instead to turn his head against the headrest and stare at Crowley. Crowley kept catching the besotted expression out of the corner of his eye, and every time he did, his foot pressed a bit harder on the accelerator.

“Ha!” he laughed joyously, the sound bubbling out of him unbidden as he curved around a corner.

Aziraphale’s hand squeezed his thigh in response. “Faster,” he said.

The pedal touched the floor.

*

They coasted for hours through the empty English countryside until Crowley finally stopped next to a giant willow tree. They unloaded a blanket and endless supply of food that Aziraphale kept pulling out of the basket. There was fruit and meat and hard cheese, crackers, biscuits, a tea kettle, and of course, a bottle of wine. 

The trunk of the tree was big enough for both of them to lean against, their shoulders brushing. Crowley had no interest in the food, but he humoured Aziraphale, who filled his plate with a veritable charcuterie board of cold meats, olives, and cheeses.

Far more entertaining to Crowley than his own food was watching Aziraphale eat. In fact, it had been one of his favourite activities for going on three millennia. He enjoyed the pleased noises Aziraphale made when he bit into a particularly sweet grape or savoury cheese; the contented flutter of his eyelashes at the first taste of dessert. 

Crowley had been the one to introduce him to hot cocoa, and the memory of Aziraphale’s face when he took the first sip had haunted Crowley ever since.

“What a lovely day,” Aziraphale said once he finished his plate.

Crowley looked up at the sky. It darkened briefly as a cloud drifted in front of the sun. With a thought, Crowley pushed it out of the way. He hummed in agreement.

“I went on the internet last night,” Aziraphale said.

“You know how to do that?” Crowley asked, surprised. 

“Barely,” Aziraphale admitted.

“What were you doing on there?”

“I was trying to research that band you like. The Velveteen Rabbit?” 

Crowley felt a fond grin stretch across his face. “The Velvet Underground,” he corrected.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, and there it was again, that faint blush creeping up his neck and staining his cheeks. Crowley was fast becoming addicted to it. “Well, that certainly explains the results that came up on the Google.”

Crowley considered correcting him, but decided he liked Aziraphale saying things like ‘the Google’ too much. 

“What did you want to know about them?” Crowley asked instead.

Aziraphale shrugged. “Not sure, really. But I’m making a list, you see.”

“A list?”

“Of things that make you happy,” Aziraphale explained and Crowley’s eyes widened. “It’s quite a long list, after all these years, though I’m afraid that some of the things on it are sadly extinct by now.”

“Oh?” 

“For instance, I don’t suppose you have the same fondness for private carriages you once did,” Aziraphale said. 

“Yeah, not so much,” Crowley agreed, and then he couldn’t take not touching Aziraphale anymore. 

He reached out and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands, guiding him in for a kiss. Like in the car the night before, Aziraphale went easily, his whole body soft and pliant against Crowley's. Crowley pulled away just long enough to yank off his glasses and toss them on the ground and was about to go back in when Aziraphale’s hands on his shoulders stopped him.

“What?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale’s hair was a riotous tangle of blonde curls, courtesy of Crowley’s fingers, and his eyes were wide and manic, flickering this way and that over Crowley’s face.

“I’m afraid I’m about to say something terribly forward,” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley froze for a moment and then burst into helpless laughter, held up only by Aziraphale’s hands on his shoulders. 

“Crowley? Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“Aziraphale, it’s been six thousand years. Please, please let’s go forward already,” Crowley gasped. 

“I told you I wanted to do this properly, and I’ve spent all day trying to hold back, but - oh, stop laughing, you demon,” Aziraphale grumbled. 

“You are something else,” Crowley replied. “Just tell me whatever it is, _angel_. Come on.”

“Oh, fine. Then what I was going to say is that you’re mine now.” Crowley stopped laughing, his whole body straightening at the note of dark possessiveness in Aziraphale's voice. One of his hands went from Crowley's shoulder to cup the back of his neck in a tight grip. “And I’m yours. And Heaven help the next person who tries to take you away from me.”

“You - I - “ Crowley said, his breath coming out in short, shallow gulps. “They probably will be. Helping, that is.”

“ _Good_ ,” Aziraphale replied fiercely, looking more serious than Crowley had ever seen him. “Let them try. Ten million soulless angels are no match for one fool in love.”

Crowley blinked rapidly, wishing he hadn’t taken off his glasses. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his hand still a warm, safe pressure on the back of Crowley’s neck. “Crowley? That was too forward, wasn’t it?”

Crowley kissed him again, desperately, and then pulled back and said, “No, you idiot. You’ve gotten it right.”

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this blanket permission to use this story for any remix, podfic, translation, fanart or other transformative work you'd like, but please inform me, credit me and provide me any links so that I can include it in the notes. 
> 
> Join me on tumblr @ [theres-a-goldensky](https://theres-a-goldensky.tumblr.com/)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Seduction Malfunction [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809880) by [aethel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aethel/pseuds/aethel)




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